


As The Old World Used To Say...

by nimrodcracker



Series: the long road [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Aro/Ace Courier, F/F, Mutual Pining, Pillow Talk, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-16 09:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: Cass gets sloshed, Six drags her drunk ass to a room. There's only one bed.





	As The Old World Used To Say...

**Author's Note:**

> Re-work of the original scene in A Shot in the Dark. Read it again out of nostalgia and I belatedly realised how much wasted angst potential there was. So here's the result.

She didn't know how Six managed it, but somehow, Six did. The stars had to screw up so catastrophically to get the unlikeliest bunch of people across the Mojave together.

She imagined how it would sound like, and this was how it went: A Brotherhood Scribe, a Followers Doctor and a Tribal walk into a bar - just like the beginnings of a bad joke. It didn't help that they were in one, in the ruined suburbs of New Vegas, but the Garret twins served vintages and that was all that mattered.

She'd tried telling it to Boone, but all she got was a noncommittal grunt. She tried telling it to Gannon and Santangelo, but they'd told her to shut up. That they did, 'cause they were so damned excited about taking Boone to the Strip for a show at the Tops. Dragging, more like, seeing the cute frown on Boone's weary face, 'cause even his shades couldn't hide everything.

By then, Cass couldn't really see the lil bear on the top of Six's battered cap no more, it being a blob of brown against gray. Maybe white. Or something. She couldn't even count how many bloody fingers she had too.

Five glasses later, Cass realised she didn't give a flying fuck anymore, with the feel-good screwing with her mind and the liquid thick in her veins. All the rage and hurt and despair blown out of her system like what that neat plastic bomb did to Crimson Caravan's main office - with that bitch inside, of course. That's how they fucked the Van Graffs over too, chucking grenades into their godforsaken store and hearing the hellish squeal of exploding plasma from the safer side of the doors. If that was how a choir of angels sang, she'd gladly take up the theological Brahmin crap of the New Canaanites.

"Cass, you thinking of leaving?" Six piped up after a while, when the three-way Caravan game of their friends exploded in a hail of cards tossed in annoyance. Cass was distracted by Gannon's ridiculous hand-flapping, the normally self-assured medic pink-cheeked and flustered by the pile of cards in front of him that refused to stack up nicely for him. And being the sloshed sucker she was, that passed for grade-A shit entertainment and Cass giggled.

Six had Cass' attention after nudging Cass' feet under the table with hers, though. Lady had the habit of speaking _only_ when she was needed, and of-fucking-course she'd do it now. Kinda helped that they weren't at the bar but the bigger tables in the back, so the Garret twins circling the drink taps like cazadors wouldn't clam Six up more than she already was.

Wouldn't hurt to lean in to annoy Six with her whiskey breath, then. "What makes ya think so?"

"You got back at those who screwed you over." Six didn't give a single ounce of Brahmin crap, o' course. Not when _her_ breath reeked of ash. "No reason to stay no more."

"Nah, lotta weird shit happened after I threw myself in with your lot. Never been so fuckin' amused."

"Heh, thanks. I'm glad."

Cass remembered babbling like a fool, her words trippin' all over each other in jumbled phrases and jarring sentences. Time held no meaning to her, because she couldn't sense the shifts in the air around her: one moment Boone and the others were still gathered at the table, and in another they were gone. Just her and Six, but boy was the courier no fun, 'cause she was pullin' a long face over shots of Absinthe again.

Cass tried counting again - five, six, seven? She knew the more bottles she drank, the more likely she was to blurt out something embarrassing. Plus, with Six around, it definitely wouldn't end well, but Cass knew that this ridiculous jaunt round the Mojave wouldn't too. No such thing as a good run when the Legion's breathin' down the NCR's neck just across the river. Nope. Life just ain't work that way.

"Cass, you sure about drinking this much?"

"Hey, they ain't call me Whiskey Rose back West for nothin'."

Eight, nine..five? and Cass knew she was beyond smashed, because the little brown blob had vanished in the mass of gray. Heck, she couldn't even see her damn bottle. Her fuckin' fingers wrapped around it ain't felt like they were attached to her hands no more.

"Hey Six? Ever been told you're one heck of a lady?"

"No, why?"

"Y'are, and I really like you for it."

"You sure that's not the whiskey talking?"

"Hell no. Don't lie when I'm overflowing with them spirits. Hey, Six? Come back to my bed? Bet I could wipe away the ugly frown on ya pretty face."

"You're serious."

"I told ya I don't lie, didn't I? Damned drinks make it hard t' lie."

"That's it. You've had too much."

Strong arms quickly hauled Cass up before she could scrabble for a table edge to anchor herself. Cass barely registered the sensation of deja vu as her jellied legs slid up and knocked against the creaking steps of a staircase, but this time, it wasn't a drink in the depths. Nah, today's excuse for alcoholic excesses was a drunken send-off for the shitheads who've crossed her, and will cross her no more. Good fucking riddance.

"You are? Caeser's balls, never thought you'd say yes."

"I'm flattered, Cass, but you're drunk."

"Aw, Six, you're such a spoilsport. No way to treat a girl like this."

Then, silence. Only the ugly creaking of a door on rusted hinges followed, then the plodding of boots on carpet.

Cass felt herself land on a squishy surface, a few heartbeats from sleep, before Six's soothing voice finally lulled her into the deep.

"You deserve better, Cass."

* * *

Cass knew she woke up like she did the last back at the Outpost, under tattered duvets and with a fucking migraine bad enough to make her toes curl. Just that this time, Six was nowhere to be seen.

Wait. Cass couldn't understand why it was so goddamn comfy under the sheets even though it's probably in the middle of every other freezin' Mojave night where she should be shivering the fuck outta her clothes - or lack thereof, she found, 'cause her flannel shirt ain't swaddlin' her chest but was draped around the head of a rickety chair by the bed. Her jeans and bra were still on, though, thank fucking God...but not like it meant much. She just had the goddamn decency to throw on some clothes after some thorough fucking, for Christ's sake.

So who was she gonna see when she flipped to her other side? Some scruffy wastelander with barely a rind on 'em, or a hooker with makeup cracked by time and vigorous action? Sure, getting sloshed was worth the airy high that spanked away her foul moods, but that ain't meant she loved how her head would explode first than be able to recall the events of the night before.

So, unwilling to wake her bed mate, Cass turned her head to her right.

Her eyes bulged. _Fuck._

It was neither of the above. It was neither of the _fucking_ above. How the _fuck_ was she supposed to wrap her head around the fact that _Six_ was no more than an arm's length away from her and curled under the duvets with her back to Cass. From what Cass saw, Six was also _shirtless_ , but with her binder of a bra still on - not like that meant shit.

Oh no. Cass wasn't ogling how the bones of Six's shoulder blades jutted through her tan skin, how they shifted in time to her slow breathing. How over that, muscles wrapped those bones, and Cass couldn't stop admiring how they landscaped Six's back. How they hid under the loose tees and sleeveless vests Six favoured. _Oh_ no. Cass wasn't imagining how all that sinewy flesh would feel under her fingertips. Six was her goddamn _friend_.

Wonder if Six was okay with being, as the Old World used to say, friends with benefi-

Cass groaned.

She also remembered making the sheets rustle, just a bit, but enough for Six to jerk awake and roll on her back. The woman blinked like a newborn, trying to shrug off the sleep that obviously hadn't come easily to her. From where Cass lay, Cass couldn't see Six's bad eye fogged over after two bullets in the head, and it was moments like this, quiet and lazy mornings just to themselves when she'd wonder if Six ever wanted her sight back.

"Hey," Six whispered to Cass as she turned to face the caravan boss fully, voice airy from sleep. Fragile, almost. But that ain't a word Cass would associate with the sharpshooter, even if Six looked at her with a smile soft enough to woobify anything remotely hard in Cass' body. _Damn_ how Six just had to tuck both her palms under her head as if they'd just fucked each other's brains out and were now basking in the afterglow.

So of course Cass could only babble back a hoarse groan-cum-grunt which Six _just_ had to laugh at in her damnably adorable way. Barring how Cass would wholeheartedly kiss Six right now, curiously, Six didn't seem to have a problem with sharing a bed. With Cass. The most amorous caravan boss she'd ever met. If anything, it was a goddamn testament to the trust and boundaries they'd clearly set between each other.

Christ. She'd literally jump at the chance to sleep with such a goddamn fine woman, cause that's one fantastic way to love a lady, but Six didn't do fucking the way they all did. Six had urges, but they were never directed at someone specific. And if Cass did jump her, would Cass fuck up a friendship that had kept 'em both from swallowing a hell lotta lead one last time? Shit like this didn't make for lighthearted campfire conversation. And shit like this wasn't worth losing over a quick shag.

Cass' hands itched to touch Six, itched to hold her to reassure that she was here and wasn't about to hightail out of her life - but they're bunched into fists inside her jeans pockets, nails digging into callused palms. And through it all, Six gazed at her like she was an angel from heaven, if those things even existed.

Cass swallowed. "I ain't do anything stupid, right? Ain't shot sexist fuckers or sleazy dickheads while drunk? Or say anything I might regret?"

Six shook her head. It was a gesture that Cass almost missed, but Six was always about slight movements and sparse words. "Nothing happened, Cass. Just had to hoist your sorry arse up here."

"Eh, thanks." Cass let out a sigh. "Hope I was a good girl on my drinks. Hate to dirty your favourite hat with piss or vomit."

Took Cass a while to realise, but Six's eyes were already shut by the time Cass stopped staring at Six's hands curled under the hem of the covers, green veins popping out from her skin.

_Rash, rash, rash,_ Cass' internal monologue sounded off, as she found herself brushing away an errant lock of raven hair from Six's forehead. Hair that Six boringly kept in a short, cropped style typical to NCR grunts - but sleep had ruffled it into a delightful mess that Cass yearned to twirl around a finger.

Seeing Six so blissfully asleep, the perpetual scrunch between her eyebrows missing for once, Cass couldn't help but wonder: what could've left the woman so knackered? Six wasn't an airhead. As expected of a former NCR officer, the sharpshooter knew her job, and did a goddamn fine one. Hell, Six had staved off sleep if she had to, like those nights staking out Legion frontlines with a bottle of Absinthe within reach for a bit of buzz after making heads explode. 'Course, months of sleeping on hard Mojave sand always made a lumpy bed feel heavenly, even if said bed vaguely reeked of vomit if Cass concentrated hard enough.

It ain't occurred to Cass in the least how much of a creep she was, watching her friend sleep and start snoring at some point - but never as crassly loud as Gannon. Woman snored as loudly as she killed, just like her darlin' Craig, the blast of gunshots smothered by their rifle silencers.

Then again, that lasted until the sledgehammer blow of sobriety rocked Cass' brains. Cass flopped back on her back over soft sheets, fingers kneading her forehead. They came in flashes, but memories of yesterday came back all the same. _And_ hurt like a bitch.

Six thought yesterday was the rambles of a washout, Cass figured - insisted to herself even - but it didn't stop the nagging feeling of horror overshadowing her relief. Cass got sloshed like how every other wastelander in the Mojave did - the babbling, the slurring, the fucked-up vision. But a lifetime of hard drinks _did_ do something for her. Cass threw tempers, mouthed off more than usual, but she remembered everything that happened, drink-induced haze or not. _Especially_ the words that had tumbled out so traitorously from her chapped lips.

Even a cold shower couldn't wash away the stinging realisation that Six never did say no to fooling around.

Cass didn't know what to make of it.


End file.
